


My Kindgom for a Horse

by atti (attilatehbun)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Comedy, Fluff, Post-War, Romance, The Quidditch Pitch: Eternity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-10-08
Updated: 2006-10-08
Packaged: 2018-10-26 12:27:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10786749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/attilatehbun/pseuds/atti
Summary: Diamonds?  Sandwiches?  The Forever kind of love?Romance and shooting stars and fireworks only take you so far, and they’re rather silly, at that.





	My Kindgom for a Horse

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Annie, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Quidditch Pitch](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Quidditch_Pitch), which went offline in 2015 when the hosting expired, at a time I was not able to renew it. I contacted Open Doors, hoping to preserve the archive using an old backup, and began importing these works as an Open Doors-approved project in April 2017. Open Doors e-mailed all authors about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact us using the e-mail address on [The Quidditch Pitch collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thequidditchpitch/profile).

  
Author's notes: A/N: Thanks to belovedranger for showing me that paragraphs are not something of which to be afraid. Also thanks to TheGiantSquid for helping me sound out some ideas for making the story better.  


* * *

  
~*~

My Kingdom for a Horse

” _We don’t have to be stars exploding in the night  
Or electric eels under the covers.  
We don’t have to be  
Anything quite so unreal  
Let’s just be lovers”_  
-The Magnetic Fields, A Chicken with its Head Cut Off

 

Ron once tried to bring me diamonds, but to be perfectly honest, I never wanted him to. Truly. Everyone seems to think that getting a diamond, or some other sparkly piece of rock, is such a romantic gesture, and guarantees a woman’s love. Please. Have you ever seen those advertisements for diamonds? No, I suppose if you aren’t Muggle-born, or obsessed with the telly like Ron, you probably wouldn’t. Basically, these ads show exactly how a man can win any woman’s heart with a diamond, a cold lump of compressed coal; how a diamond will buy her eternal love and gratitude.

It’s downright offensive, if you ask me. Assuming a woman won’t love you as much without romantic or expensive gifts. Ooo, it’s a shame you can’t hear my snort of indignation. Love comes from much more important things. I realized this the day Ron bought my love with a sandwich.

It all started with models. No, not the kind who prance about in ridiculous dress robes. The kind you build. The kind that I, _cough_ , happen to be addicted to. Oh, don’t look so shocked. Too hard to believe that Hermione Granger builds toy ships and brooms and people? Do you really think that all I do for fun is read? I have other interests, you know; I am three-dimensional. I mean, honestly. Besides, it’s all Ron’s fault. He’s turning out to be quite like his father, only instead of being specifically obsessed with Muggle plugs and screwdrivers, he’s developed a fascination with tinkering of all kinds. I think it must have started when he realized he had a strong aptitude for broomstick repair and maintenance. He tinkers all he likes in his now chain of shops. He didn’t want to do his job at home, so when he discovered model building, it caught his attention. Briefly.

One day, we were walking home from my parents’ house (a beautiful day, why Apparate?) and passed by a Muggle hobby shop. He saw a model airplane in the window, found it hilarious that airplanes are what Muggles use to fly, and resolved to build one. I believe he worked on it for about three hours before deciding it wasn’t much fun to do without magic. He left it on the dining room table for two weeks before I became fed up and decided to just finish the dratted thing myself. One hour of gluing the little pieces into place, and I was hooked. I bought several more on my next trip past the hobby shop. After doing a bit of research I realized that Wizarding children also have models, only theirs are quite a bit more complex, aren’t airplanes and boats, and even move about when completed. So now I do both kinds while Ron sits about watching our charmed television and tinkering with some other new thing. Actually, this wasn’t my first foray into models. When I was six years old, my parents bought me a model called The Visible Woman whose various internal systems you could construct, like her skeleton and her digestive tract, as well as paint the veins and…I’m getting off topic. Anyway.

So Ron got me hooked on these stupid wonderful models, and I tended to get a bit, er, focused on them. One night I happened to be focused on a particularly difficult arrangement of troops on a battleship when my stomach began rumbling. Never taking my eyes from my work, I nudged Ron with my foot. He had been sitting on the other end of the sofa, tinkering with some new gadget he had found, trying to decide the best charm to place on it.

“I’m hungry,” I announced.

“Good for you,” Ron replied.

After a few moments, I tried again. “I’m really hungry.”

A quick glance at his watch, and Ron returned with, “We had dinner not even an hour ago. And you’re still hungry.”

“Yes.”

“All right then.”

A few more minutes passed. “A sandwich would really hit the spot.”

I didn’t really need to look at him to know he was smirking. “Is there something you’re trying to accomplish by telling me this?”

“Would you make me one?” I tried my best at a winning smile, but I’m afraid the effect was somewhat dampened by the fact that all of my attention was focused on the miniature men in front of me. You know, in this day and age they should really add women to their troops, honestly.

“I’m sure you’d like that,” was all he had to say.

“Yes, as a matter of fact, I would,” I retorted.

“You know, Hermione, the kitchen is, oh, say, ten feet away. You could easily get up and make one for yourself,” Ron said, clearly enjoying this far too much.

“But then I’d have to stop…Are you laughing at me?”

“No,” he replied, much too quickly.

“You know, this is your fault. If you hadn’t brought that silly thing home in the first place--”

“Then you’d be able to use your own very nice legs to get into the kitchen and feed yourself?”

I merely harrumphed.

After yet another pause, during which I arranged two battalions, attached two large guns, and a miniature commander, I decided to try a different tactic.

“If you make me a sandwich, I’ll love you forever,” I tried.

“I thought you already did love me forever.”

“No, of course not. I only love you with the Here and Now kind of love. If you want the Forever kind, sandwiches are required.” What? I _was_ getting desperate, after all.

“Oh, I see,” my husband replied in the type of voice that strongly indicated he was working to contain his laughter.

I waited. And waited. And then waited some more, before resigning myself to a trip to the kitchen once all the tiny men were securely glued.

I was very nearly finished and was just about to get up, when a plate thrust itself under my nose. Oh, and not just any plate. A plate with a sandwich on it. A beautiful sandwich. Made by my beautiful Ron. For me. It had all my favorite sandwich things in it; heaps of turkey, crisp bacon, thick slices of tomato, and just the most perfect smear of mustard, which in and of itself was an accomplishment, as Ron hates mustard and refuses to go near it unless absolutely forced.

I looked up at him, grinning like a fool. He just gave me a shrug and a wink and said, “I’d kind of like the Forever kind.”

And as I was tackling him to the floor, I realized. This is winning love, a gesture so much more meaningful than a rock. Who needs a diamond? They’re transient, cliché, devoid of imagination. But sandwiches, sandwiches are real; they’re permanent, not to mention delicious. They are something I need _and_ something I want. Romance and shooting stars and fireworks only take you so far, and they’re rather silly, at that. But sandwiches, delivered by infuriating wonderful husbands who take the mickey out of you but still bring you exactly what you need, that’s what I want.

My heart for a sandwich.

Yeah, sounds about right.


End file.
